


Balcony Duet

by sfiddy



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Complete, Everyone wins, F/M, Fluff, Gentle Romance, Happy Ending, Humor, I too pair drinks and music, Mild Smut, Modern AU, No Drama, Romance, but gin makes my tongue go numb so, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-07-23 21:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16167050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: Erik owns and directs a decrepit community theater and company. He unwinds by playing to the evening air. One day he has an accompaniment. Inspired by that pianist's request that went viral.Rating may (did) change.





	1. The Maestro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wheel_of_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_of_fish/gifts), [tasteofthebitchpudding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofthebitchpudding/gifts).



> Another "Two Cakes!" sort of thing. Seriously, if you have fic languishing on or in your computer, notebook, or head... please post it so it can be loved as it deserves.

Evening fell in a soft cascade of yellows, oranges and pinks as Erik showered off the dust and scuffle of the theater. After applying a layer of protective cream over his fragile face, he shuffled off and relaxed into his couch. Managing a busy theater was a draining job, even when done mostly through others to avoid the stares and side glances of the morbidly curious, and left little time for what he really enjoyed. Even if he could, he wouldn't want the grinding job of day to day collaborative piano work. Not in a theater, anyway.

He poured a drink and carefully replaced his mask. If pressed, he would admit that he missed the moments when just a few people gathered at the piano and made music together. The intimate play of skill, interpretation, and talent that took what was on the page to a different level. The moment when the written score no longer ruled and the music, _the music_ , led the way.

When his music led, people tended to notice his face less.

With a sigh, Erik walked across his living room towards the balcony doors, side stepping the piano that lived where anyone else would have… whatever it was that they had in their homes. Desks, coffee tables, cabinets; the pedestrian and mundane. He had a small couch, a tiny end table, and a piano. It was enough. He hardly sat in the couch anyway.

With a gentle press, his French doors swung open silently and let in a cool breeze. The courtyard below was dark, and the gardens many floors below were lit with tiny fairy lights strung from the tree branches. They hung low here and there, illuminating the bushes and flower beds. All around, balconies staggered drunkenly up the sides of the apartment buildings. Dim outlines jutting from otherwise smooth concrete façades.

It was funny how apartments boasted about their balconies, yet hardly anyone stepped onto them. Occasional glows followed by a puff of lazy, curling haze betrayed the smokers. A handful of others took in the evening autumn air that spiraled through the courtyard walkways and down from the sky above. Most of the jutting platforms were vacant.

As the evening settled violet shadows to the world's edges, Erik turned back to his rooms. Nature had exhaled and let the remaining shreds of day pass by. Darkness was gentler, kinder. Blurring the details. Everyone was the same in the dark. He flexed his hands and stretched his fingers.

He settled on Haydn, for the cool air felt like a lullaby. The notes danced in the courtyard, echoing playfully into the garden and up to the deepening purple sky. Variations evolved the music into a fugue that fused itself to a thoughtful motif he'd heard once, and finally Haydn once more. Erik ended his concert gently, for himself and, perhaps more practically, to avoid noise complaints. Then he toasted the accommodating night, finished his drink, and gathered the fortitude to finish his work. If he was quite fortunate, he'd manage a few hours of sleep before doing it all again.

…

The next morning passed in a blur of budget shifts and retroactive justification. It was followed by hasty medical attention for and filing the medical claims on behalf of his prima donna who, after her leading man bungled a set piece, ended up with a chipped tooth and bloody lip. Then more budgeting to replace the set piece after being bested by the prima donna's face.

Erik pulled his keys from his pocket and gave serious consideration to arson. When he reached his door, he unlocked it with a sigh and reminded himself that he loved the arts and his theater, loved music, and this was just the business side. Music took talent and training, and neither were free. He pushed the door open and looked down.

Damn. He had a note.

A scrap of cheap notebook paper had been shoved under the door with enough force to send it a foot beyond the threshold.

With a grunt, Erik bent and picked it up. If the little fart took issue with his playing they should have complained the day after he'd smashed out some Rachmaninoff and transitioned to Metallica, not after an evening of lullabies. He'd show them what a noise complaint should sound like.

He unfolded the note.

...

_A humble request to the Maestro: Liebestraum No. 3 in A flat._

...

Erik immediately took back the little fart comment. It was the nicest scribble, really. Loopy enough to be artful, but with enough spike for efficiency. He hurried through his shower, threw on some clothes, and sloshed too much red wine into a glass.

Liszt. Who didn't love Liszt? Erik even had a hard copy of it somewhere, but immediacy demanded he queue it up on his laptop. A glance at the first bar and his mind filled in the rest; a conversation with an old friend. Then he flung the French doors open, only just stopping one from smacking against the wall to his bedroom.

The night again was violet-cool and breezy. The drunken balconies shared no secrets, and the smokers and shadows kept each other company. Somewhere though, somewhere in this was his audience, and they must not be kept waiting.

With a few deep breaths, a healthy swallow of wine, and a splendid neck crack, he was ready.

Erik gave the keys a light stroke as he placed his hands for the piece, then eased into the music, letting it flow through him and out into the courtyard; relief after a day of pounding power chords and paperwork. Such a deeply satisfying refrain, elaborated by flourishes that made the core seem simple, then repeated to emphasize their breathtaking beauty, the pearl in the oyster. Six little bars; love at the center of the dream.

He did not look at the music, all one needed was the six bars and after that it was frills and ribbons. Magnificent and transcendent to be sure, but decorations for what lay at the center.

Erik closed his eyes, letting Liszt spill into the cool evening air without really playing it, for in moments like these he became the music. There was no more theater, no paperwork, no mask and no Erik. He spread himself out in the song, a thin veil across the darkening evening.

Across a courtyard.

He let the last notes linger, hanging in the air, as long as he could before he reluctantly released the sustain. As they silenced, Erik opened his eyes and raised his mask to gently wipe the collected moisture underneath, caught in the misshapen twists and ridges of his… face.

Applause. One person. There was applause for his playing.

His audience.

Erik rose from the bench, replacing his mask as he walked to his balcony. The clapping grew louder as he stepped out, but he could not tell where it came from. The concrete walls of the courtyard bounced the sound in every direction. He was uncomfortable being watched, but the clapping did not stop when he stepped to the edge of his balcony, and came faster when he bowed.

It slowed, and finally stopped when he retreated. Erik was tempted to play an encore, considered seeing if his listener would offer another round of appreciation, but decided they had already pressed their luck with the other residents.

Besides, if he left his audience with an appetite, there may be another request.

His smile raised the mask over his cheekbones for a moment, and he closed his balcony doors gently, bidding a fond goodnight to the stars and his charming fan.

…

Though he tried not to, Erik couldn't help feeling a little disappointed when there was no note under his door the next day. He played jazz classics and sipped a gin and tonic. There was no note the next day, either, and he soothed his soul with a melancholy air and tea before retiring early.

After a dull day coordinating maintenance work and city inspectors, Erik trudged to his door with a substantial chip on his shoulder. It was irritating work, lacking even an intersection of art and business. It required calendars, carefully scheduling work away from stage time, and the quick diplomacy necessary to juggle multiple contractors on limited resources. It was dull without the good manners to be mindless.

Thus primed, his hands itching to play and his nerves begging for a stiff drink, Erik slid his key into the door. Perhaps a good pounding of Holst or some Mahler tonight. Either way, he'd have a shot before his shower, just to burn the day away.

The door swung open and Erik glanced down.

Oh. He had a note.

His bag smacked on the tile floor as Erik dove down for the folded paper.

…

_Dear Maestro, Thank you for Liszt and the lovely jazz. Would you consider Shubert's Ave?_

…

Well, wasn't that just jarring. Smashing out the loudest hot mess he could to… this. One does not easily trade a tirade for prayer. His fingers flexed impatiently.

Would he consider it? He was already debating which arrangement, the musician's equivalent of 'how high?'. While the request would be honored, he couldn't be blamed for taking liberty with it. Besides, he was an artist.

Showered and comfortable, Erik patted his face gently with cream and opened his bar cabinet. The first shot of tequila was far from smooth, but it burned so good and cleared the sticky, clinging day from his mind. The second shot burned, too, and he set on the third on the table near the piano, then he eased the mask into place and headed to the french doors.

The evening was warmer. A thick blanket of cloud overhead had trapped the daytime warmth. Storm season approached, or maybe it was the energy of expectation that crackled in the air. It was eerily silent in the courtyard, as if the smokers and crickets had all taken a vow of silence for the night. He could even hear the wind as it whistled through the hallways and down stairwells.

Erik imagined he could feel the eyes on him as he stepped into the soft darkness, making sure it was obvious that he, the Maestro, was about to play.

How little it took to capture his imagination these days.

He sat at the bench and removed the mask again. The Virgin Mother was about to be invoked and he wanted her to know who was calling.

The first notes came easy, reverently, but just before reaching the first 'benedictus', he added power, bass where it had not been, and Erik pounded into a crescendo and let it die back and sweeten for the refrain.

As he let the notes hush and prepared to really let go for the second half, a sound caught his ear. A sound he did not make.

A voice. From outside. Soprano.

Erik's hands froze for only a moment, his ears tingling, trying in vain to find the direction, but he knew that was pointless. Even if he wasn't inside, sitting in front of a piano, the concrete square outside would ricochet.

So he played on, softer, to hear the voice. He changed the arrangement to accompany the singer, not plow over her, and then repeated to give her a go at the entire song. As she grew more confident, her singing grew bolder, and she adapted and threw in trills and improvised around him. She was skilled. She was strong.

She was _bewitching._

Too soon the song ended again, and Erik hopped from the bench and ran to the balcony. His applause joined that of his singer, their noisy clapping ringing around the courtyard.

"Brava!" he shouted, and heard a light laugh.

Oh, she was a diva.

It wasn't until he raised the third shot to his lips that he realized he wasn't wearing his mask.

…

The next day, there were two notes under his door.

...

_My dear Maestro: Brava indeed! Perhaps just a lullabye tonight? -Your singer_

...

The other was a noise complaint. Erik grinned and eased into some Brahms.

…

Erik stayed home the next day. After another day of repairs, he had no doubt the errors would make themselves apparent quickly. He assured his production and stage assistants of his full confidence in them and, knowing the hellscape they were in for, ordered pizza to be delivered for lunch. Then he ordered sandwiches to be delivered for dinner. His confidence in them went only so far.

He was absolutely not staying at home because the diva had seen him without the mask. But his sensitive hearing had not detected a gasp of horror and she'd kept clapping.

Conclusion? She was blind.

Error. She'd clapped louder as he stepped onto the balcony, and tapered off as he retreated.

Mad, then? Whatever she was, she was a delight. If he was lucky, she was in the market for an accompaniment.

Erik dragged his sofa and turned it to give a view of his door. He wasn't going to let her get away this time.

…

It was approaching the late afternoon as Erik replied to a reasonably coherent email from a stagehand. The current project needed more sophisticated rigging than they usually ran, but Erik was never without a plan, and had personally designed the modern fly system. It was worth a call.

"There's more capacity up there. Check the store room and you'll see crates labeled 'expansion'. If you run into trouble before I'm back, call the number on the plans and ask for Khan."

As he hung up,he caught the sound of movement in the hallway. Rustling.

By the time he heard paper tearing, Erik had his hand on the doorknob. When he whipped the door open, a young woman with soft brown curls piled atop her head jumped and dropped her notebook and pen. Erik bent down and picked up the notebook.

Same handwriting.

The woman stood up and straightened her glasses. She peered up at him as she plucked a curl from under a lens. She took a breath as if to speak but Erik held up a hand to stop her.

"Are you warmed up?"

She blinked. "I, ah… no. Not yet."

He pushed the door wide and stepped back to give her a view of… his couch. Erik swore under his breath and pulled the thing out of the way to give the woman a view of the small grand piano. "Never neglect a proper warm up. Come."

She hesitated. "I don't know…"

"Of course. I'm a stranger. A stranger wearing a mask no less. Look, I'll make this quick because I'm rather impatient to begin," He stuck out his hand. "Hello, I'm Erik, and I'm a very ugly musician. I'm very pleased to meet you miss…?"

She giggled and turned pink when her hand disappeared into his. "I'm Christine, and I'm a… a failed soprano."

He released her hand and stepped back. "Who told you that?"

Oh heavens, now she was blushing. "Fifteen years of vocal study, thirty failed auditions, three coaches, and an ex husband." Christine tilted her head. "Who said you were ugly?"

"God decreed it and my mother, good Catholic that she was, did not argue. Your problem is probably stage presence, not your voice. Your coaches were imbeciles, and I assume your ex is an ex for a reason."

Christ, his rapid fire was making his own head spin. He held the door a bit wider. "Are you going to sing or not?"

Christine hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and watched him carefully. "Okay. Maybe we can avoid a noise complaint if we're not serenading the entire complex."

Erik felt his uneven grin nudge the mask. "Philistines," he sniffed.

...


	2. What now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik meanders through his theater. Christine meanders into his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A silly, modern AU continues.

In the early morning, Erik walked a slow circuit around the theater, holding his coffee cup in both hands to ward away the damp chill. It was the third Sunday of the month, and he liked to check in and survey the damage from the previous night’s show. If it wasn’t such a solid moneymaker, he’d have more misgivings about it.

That wasn’t fair. The regular show was a revolving door for young and local performers and he gave them as close to free reign as he could afford. They got to build resumes and he got first crack at new talent for his troupe. It was worth it, even if he had to pay for extra janitorial service.

The dumpsters out back were full; a few overstuffed trash bags leaned against them. One was disemboweled, spilling loops of snowy-white toilet paper guts onto the wet asphalt. No doubt the birds and raccoons had torn into the bag for the toast.

He drew the line at the confetti. The stuff was like herpes.

As much as Erik would have liked to have another Saturday night free for quartets, or the university players, the fact was people liked these shows. While he’d probably never admit it out loud, it was still live performance, and he loved that. To the marrow of his bones, he still loved it, despite the strange hours, dull repetition, tight budgets and general insanity. He loved the chaos and energy of creation.

It’s also what he missed the most. 

He unlocked the side door, climbed to the stage, and paced around. All was well here, as it was backstage, so he trudged to his office and looked over the notes from the night before. Satisfied that nothing was tragically amiss, nothing he hadn’t already known about, he made his way back to the pit and drew the heavy, waterproof cover from the big Steinway.

Yes, he missed this, too. His regular pianist adored the thing and never neglected to cover it before these shows. Good thing, too, or Erik would have the man’s fingers. Even used, he’d blown much of his budget on the down payment for this beauty the first year. He was still paying on it, and it was worth every penny.

But what to play? It wasn’t like he had to hold back-- no one was going to file a noise complaint if he crashed through a real knuckle buster. There was nothing better than the acoustics in this decrepit, wonderful, awful, glorious space when you really opened up.

Erik folded back the first lid.

And his diva… maybe he could convince her to come sing on that stage sometime. Some Sunday morning when the place was deserted and it was just them. When she was ready, maybe she could even try one of the small weekday shows. The Monday crowd was small and incredibly supportive. They’d love her.

With a bit of affection and effort, Erik lifted the top board and reached for the prop.

God _damn_ it.

Oh, he was going to kill them. He would strangle all the little water gun toting, toast chucking little bastards with their bustiers.

This was the last time he’d tolerate finding fishnets strewn across his strings.

...

After their third session, Christine stopped pretending to slip notes under his door. 

After the fourth she’d text him when she was on her way.

“Good evening, Christine.” Of course he hadn’t been waiting by the door. It was just where he’d moved the table and that was where his drink was. He also hadn’t rushed through his shower and face care. At all.

“Good evening, Maestro! How do you feel about Patsy Cline?”

“She was a contralto. You’re a soprano.”

Christine set down her things and unscrewed her water bottle. “Well, that’s just a matter of key, right? What key did she sing Crazy in? F?”

“F major,” He closed the door and sipped his bourbon. “You have the range. You could just go up an octave.”

With a shudder, Christine set down her water. “You want me to shriek it? It’s a _lament_ , Erik. A lacrimosa of the South!” Before he could even react, she had taken his drink and downed a finger’s worth of Kentucky’s finest. 

“Did you just--” Of her actions or words, he was not sure which had rendered him stupid.

“Now,” she said with a wheeze, handing back the drink. “What about A minor?”

Erik drained the glass as he raised the fallboard. A quick glance at the keys, some mental gymnastics. 

“Bring the pain, my dear.”

...

After the sixth session, he simply left the door cracked open. 

…

One night, after their second song, Erik shook his head. “Did you talk a lot today? You’re fraying already.”

Christine swallowed and nodded. “Yes. I started a new job and did a lot of phone consulting. Then Mr. Satis needed a home, so I had to coordinate that, too.

“Whatever that means, you’re not singing any more today,” Erik said, rising from the bench seat. He refreshed his drink, rattling his ice. “Make you one, since you’re off duty now?”

“What are we having, Maestro?” 

“I had planned for some jazz standards, so it was either a martini or vodka tonic. I’m all out of olives, so--”

“Extra lime, please,” Christine grinned. 

As he squeezed lime into the glass, Erik’s mind rewound the evening a bit. “Tell me about this Mr. Satis. Are you a housing expert? Leasing agent?”

“Oh no. I do design work from home on a big, fancy computer. Since I’m home so much, I foster rescue dogs when I can. Mr. Satis is my latest.” Christine pulled out her phone while Erik topped off her drink with tonic. “Here, look!” she said brightly, and handed him her phone.

He nearly dropped the drink. It was the absolute ugliest dog he’d ever seen. It was a half hairless rat with a pitifully hideous case of eczema. 

“Isn’t he just wild?” Christine laughed and reached for her drink.

Erik drained his glass. “Wild is one word. So what happens with Mr.-- what was it again?”

“Satis. It’s Latin for ‘pretty’. The great news is, he’s a hurricane dog and he’s chipped, so someone out there probably wants him back.”

How in heaven anyone wanted it in the first place was beyond him. Erik sucked on his ice to avoid speaking.

“Most dogs they send me aren’t from really bad situations, so most the time they just need some love and attention and they’re great pet material.”

God, this was getting a little too close to home. “You said you do design work?”

She took a sturdy swallow, as if bracing herself. “Yeah, I minored in design, and I freelance a little of everything. Room and office design, some logo design, general layout work. Got a nice start early on and managed to bring some business with me when I moved.”

“Where did you move from?” He probably shouldn’t have had that second one so fast.

“New York.” She drained her glass and Erik took it back to refill without questions. “I majored in music and planned a career in the arts. By my senior year I was pretty serious with this guy and we got engaged. For a few extra classes, I had a minor in design.” She tossed her hair back, out of her face. “He thought it would dovetail well with his career.”

“What did he do?” And he probably shouldn’t be halfway through his third, but here he was.

Christine set her drink down and slapped her palm lightly on the counter. “You know, I haven’t the foggiest. He had the same name as the company, and I guess that’s what he did.”

Erik shrugged. “For some, it’s enough.”

“Not for me,” she said with little smile. That smile had seen a lot. He really liked that smile. And the voice that came out of those lips. The person was not so bad either. A little funny, with her orphan dogs, but then he’d bought a battered theater. 

So, not bad. 

He raised his glass to toast that smile. “I’m glad.”

It widened as Christine tapped her glass to his. “Me, too.”

...

Tonight her hair was piled up and escaped curls played and caught around her ears and neck. Vines climbing a marble column.

Erik shook his head and played scales as Christine warmed up. It took less time every session and it was clear that while she hadn’t sung much lately, she had in the past. She was stronger every day. 

Her neck was so fine and strong, the veins prominent as she powered up her higher registers, and she grinned at him as she completed the top of the scale with ease.

Days at the theater were long, but unwinding like this… Erik eased her into a bit of Gershwin and felt his back release some of the day’s tension. So strange, how she never looked away as he played, but kept her eyes on him. Intently. Watching for the cues, reading his shoulders. 

His mask gave away nothing, so he had to give elsewhere. With Christine, he wanted to give everything, but she was just a little too… unattainable. 

He would take what he could get.

As Christine caught her breath, Erik stood for a refill. “One more after this?”

“Absolutely,” she said, glowing pink. “Erik, do you sing? I mean, you must, right?”

He paused mid-pour and wished he was drinking something stiffer than red wine, for here be dragons. He took down a second wineglass. “Only if you join me.”

...

Years ago, when he was more prone to the sorts of moods befitting the mystique that came with wearing a mask, he used to compose. He’d written a few pieces that ended up in video games, a commercial or two, and helped local musicians like a kind of consultant. It paid the bills at a time when he was exploring options.

A few absolute truths became evident: first, no matter how refined people pretended to be, you can never fail with a live Saturday night production of Rocky Horror. 

The second truth was that you cannot reconstruct what is not there. He learned that he was allergic to latex and most metals. When his options turned out to be as limited as the workable flesh on most of his face, he invested in custom leather-lined porcelain and a theater. While one worked out better than the other some days, the day to day grind of running a functional venue and troupe siphoned his energy. You can’t compose on fumes. 

But now, after eight sessions with Christine, he could feel the strings of notes tickling the edges of his mind again like the ringlets that dangled by her ears. At work, he left his desk and wandered to the recital room piano, his fingers tapping at air along the way. A few notes, followed by a duplet. Nothing more. But it was enough.

They’d sang a duet. It was just a sappy torch song, but how wide her eyes opened when he’d joined her! The way she’d swayed with the music, singing with every sinew, had filled him with something new, warm and liquid. By the time they’d finished singing, his neck was tingling and her eyes were wet.

Who were those tears for, he’d wondered? They’re called torch songs for a reason, and perhaps she still carried one. 

His fingertips twitched on the keys. A few notes, then a duplet. Repeat. Then what?

Erik wandered back to his office. That was the question, wasn’t it? Now what?


	3. The Plagiarist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik engages in a bit of theft.

Thick paper cups sent up twin wisps of steam that curled and tumbled through the air. Erik blew a little puff at the cup lids and sent the orderly trails into chaos. 

With the office door closed, the repeated thumps and crashing of the percussion line were acceptably muffled. The vibration still carried in the pipes, lending a metallic ring to the walls like a twanging guitar string, but acceptable nonetheless. 

For the past two weeks, Erik had pulled full days at the theater, slogging through the work of property and venue management while lending his support and direction to the music director and stage manager, only to stay up long past the point of reason to accompany Christine.

She was an addiction. Perhaps not unlike his devotion to coffee, but infinitely more satisfying. 

He rose from his seat and double checked that the office door was locked, then silenced his phone. The house orchestra was nearly prepped and the singing parts were coming together as well, so as long as the building held, they looked to be on schedule. 

With a sigh of relief, Erik slipped the mask off and set it on a pad, then reached for the first cup. It was a little too hot, but fine. When the coffee is brewed by the stagehands, you know it’s going to do the job. 

They stayed up much too late the night before. Erik had encouraged Christine to mix up her preferred standards with some more playful, lyric intense work and a little opera. Nothing serious, just to have her try to really open up. She was by no means an operatic singer, but he was desperate to feel her voice, not just hear it.

She’d struggled to harness and control her strength for the short piece, and started laughing when her voice simply ghosted her in a high note. Not embarrassed, not ashamed, simply recognition. And that was good. Fun, even.

It could be fun adapting the piece he was writing for a less archaic sound. Besides, he was writing for the voice she had, not because he thought she had nothing more to offer, but because he rather liked the little scrapes and catches in it. 

Perhaps he could use them. Sometimes flaws highlight beauty.

The second cup had cooled slightly and went down faster. When it was drained, Erik folded his arms on his desk and set his head down. Coffee naps were a godsend and when he next opened his eyes he fully expected to be full speed ahead for the rest of the day. For now, though, he was asleep by the time his screen darkened after setting the alarm. Asleep and dreaming of beauty.

…

Christine had to stretch to reach the tea cups. A thin strip of her exposed skin made Erik look back at the keys.

“Why are all the important things so high up?” she teased with a smile as she turned on the kettle and measured tea for them both.

The next day he bought a step stool for his kitchen.

…

A cold front had blown in earlier in the day, and Christine spread her arms wide in front of the French doors. Wind flapped the edges of her oversized shirt like wings.

She turned and grinned, her cheeks bright and pink. “That feels so good after singing!”

Erik handed her a fresh drink and breathed in the night. “Careful, if you get cold I’ll make you take a day off.” He’d still play for her, though. She could relax on the couch while he took requests, and wasn’t that just a wild idea?

“I’d better go bundle up then,” Christine said, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Erik said and swept up a buttery soft throw blanket from his couch. He set it lightly over Christine’s shoulders. “Better?”

She blinked, fingering the short fringe. “Is this new?”

“No?” He’d noticed that her skin prickled on cool nights. 

She raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. “Well, either way, thank you,” she said, snuggling the blanket around her. Erik had never been jealous of textiles before. Her ice rattled a few moments later.

“Get you another?” he asked. 

“Might as well, since I’m nice and warm now,” Christine said.

Erik had never been one for decorating, but he thought he’d matched the blanket to the color of her eyes fairly well from memory. 

…

There was a storm in the distance. Clouds played king of the mountain and punched through layer after layer while Christine sang a little Harry Connick Jr. When Erik called it, they stood on the balcony to watch the lightning illuminate voluptuous details before darkening into purple lumps once again. 

He sipped his coffee. He still had work to do tonight. “You know, you don’t ask.”

A ringlet had flopped out of the pins and her tea smelled like flowers. “About what?”

“The mask.”

She was quiet for a moment, then adjusted her glasses. “You don’t ask about my ex husband.”

A bolt of lighting crawled along the outside of the clouds before impaling the cottony mass again. He had once, but they’d been a little drunk, and she’d started it. Erik swirled his coffee and shrugged. “You deserve your privacy.”

“Hmmm…” Christine sipped her tea with a little smile. A woosh of thunder-scented air accompanied a rumble and she stepped closer, lightly tucked against his side.

Oh. _Oh_.

“Christine?”

She tilted her head up, peering at him. “Mmm?” The balcony light caught in her glasses. 

Logistics. They’d get pressed against the mask and bruise the bridge of her nose. Or worse, they’d knock the mask loose, or knock her glasses off and then they’d fall off the balcony. So he wrapped an arm around her and touched his chin to the top of her head. Christine put her arm around his waist and leaned into him.

“Thank you, Christine.”

The storm moved off, trailing a dwindling light show as it died out and leaving behind unsatisfied, charged air.

...

On Friday, Erik locked his office, looking forward to being home. The third weekend of the month had rolled around again and once the Saturday morning book reading for the kids was done, the debauchery would begin. Erik would happily stay away and let his troupe run the show.

The worst they’d ever done was miswire their lighting and rigging, resulting in a strobe show that the guests loved, even if a few ended up with headaches. So, content to escape for a few hours, Erik relaxed and poured a drink while the shower warmed up. 

What to play tonight? Perhaps a few showtunes, and then see how she liked what he was writing? He wouldn’t tell her he was composing it for her yet, but he could play what he’d written so far and see if she liked it. If she did, he might be able to convince her to sing on stage. He would play and see her bathed in a spotlight and she would fill his theater with her voice.

A funny little flutter inside, then a thump in his ears. Christ, when had he last felt like this? Had he ever? It wasn’t like the odds had ever been in his favor. For all the messaging on loving the person for what was inside, there sure was a huge, obsessive market for the outside. If none of it was an option, you simply made do with what you could get as the world’s eyes skittered over you.

And yet Christine sang to him -with him- moving with the music they made. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, taking the cues and mirroring him. More flutters. 

Get a grip, she’d be on her way any minute and he was getting mushy. As Erik finished applying the cream, his phone chirped.

.

_Mr. Satis got into something in the gardens. Sick. Rain check?_

.

Well, damn. He’d planned on opening a red tonight. Cliché as it may be, red went well with Schönberg, and he’d yet to hear her sing Les Miz.

.

_Sure. Need anything?_

.

Erik didn’t relish the idea of running errands on behalf of a vomitous dog, but if it helped bring Christine back… 

His phone chirped again.

.

_No, just need to crash. Maybe a lullabye?_

.

He played Chopin until his eyes crossed.

…

On Saturday afternoon, while beloved and tattered scenes were carefully placed and his Steinway was secured, Erik toyed with his phone until he couldn’t wait any longer to send a message. It would have been the perfect time, but he couldn’t compose like this, not the piece he was working on. He could only let the handful of bars dance in his ears. 

.

_How are you and Mr. Pretty today?_

.

It took her a few minutes to reply. Erik kept tapping the screen so it would not go dark.

.

_He’s keeping food down now. Got my place clean finally, so a little frazzled. You?_

.

He’d had a slow day, popping into his office while children piled onto the stage to hear a story and one of the violinists play a few songs. Then he’d come home and stared at his phone.

.

_Fine. A few errands, now home. Do anything for you?_

.

Minutes passed. He drifted by the French doors and glanced at the sky. He wasn’t used to seeing the sun, even as it lowered, and his eyes watered. Wandered off to the kitchen, his hands tapping music over every surface.

.

_Will you play a song for me? Anything, just something special. Rough night._

.

Oh. He could do that. Definitely.

Erik smiled as he dug a grapefruit from his fridge.

.

_Give me ten._

.

Fortune favored the bold, so he poured a double greyhound and considered. It had been two months. Two months of a neverending glissando leading… where? 

 

Elton. Elton and Bernie had a way with words and maybe they could do the talking tonight. Like looking at the sun, the biggest things in life sometimes had to be done indirectly. Maybe he was a coward. Maybe, like Christine and opera, he just knew his limits.

At nine minutes, as the sky was only just changing colors, Erik opened the French doors and let the oncoming sunset light the piano. It was a warm, honey gold light, and it gilded the keys with highlights, catching on the marks where his hands had been. Faint prints, evidence of use. Of adoration.

There was a step stool with no one there to use it, and though the cold never bothered him much, there were now three blankets laid over the couch in colors Christine liked. They weren’t neatly folded or on a shelf, but kept draped over the arm of the couch, ready. Evidence of use. Of adoration.

The fallboard was heavy tonight, but the first notes sparkled. If she had misread him, then he would not let it continue. He let the song fly, offering up the borrowed words because he didn’t have his own yet. These were as honest as anything he could ever say, now that he realized what he wanted to say. 

A beat. Two. Then the next song. 

Erik’s eyes slid closed as he played this sweetest plagiarism, as real as the stool and blankets and the buzz he got from killing a bottle with her. From playing for her. Her. The funny feeling she gave him and how empty he was when she wasn’t there. He didn’t write this song but it was hers now, so he sang it softly for her. Softly, so the words did not carry. Calligraphy in vapor. 

He’d make it up to her, replace these stolen stanzas with his own. She could spear him with it if she chose, but they would be his to give. Until then, how wonderful life was with her in the world.

As he inhaled to deliver the last line, someone beat him to it. 

His eyes flew open to find Christine, her curls untamed and free, singing as she walked to him. The light from the balcony spotlighted her in soft gold, paralyzing Erik at the bench. 

“Christine?” he choked out, his hands numbly patting out uneven notes, unsure of what else they could do.

She sat close to him on the bench, facing the kitchen. “You left the door unlocked,” she said and rested her head against his shoulder. 

Erik’s throat closed for a moment when a coil of her dark hair slid over his arm and caught the sunset, sparkling red and gold. “I always leave it unlocked for you,” he said.

Her arm slid under his, wrapping lightly around him, sending his skin into a flurry of sensation where she brushed his shirt, his waist, and opened her hand against his side. Fingertips against his ribs like piano keys. 

“Will you play for me?” she asked. A breath, as though she would say more, but she only turned her head and looked up at him. Erik could see himself in her eyes. Could see the mask, the false contours that he offered. People’s eyes fixated on it when he spoke to them, favoring the edges and his mouth, avoiding the porcelain. But they had to get past it to look him in the eye. 

Christine met him eye to eye. When her gaze dropped to his mouth, his insides clenched, tight and swirling.

He knew what to play. 

There wasn't much written, not yet, but he had six bars and a few elaborations. It was a beginning. A refrain. The center of his dream. 

By the third bar, Christine's hand had drifted to the center of his chest. On the second repeat, he added variations and trills, an expansion. He softened for the third, an improvised resolution for an incomplete score. Three bars in, her hand fisted in his shirt. 

Her glasses clacked against porcelain, and her lips…

Time broke. The metronome of his life, marking the hours with endless ticks and swings, hit a snag. His hands were still on the piano.

“Erik?” he heard. Christine was so very close, her breath on his chin.

It wasn’t his fault. Time had failed, but it returned in a mad rush. He yanked his hands from the keys and slid them into her wild hair. It was theft, these kisses, this tender larceny. 

Erik could not imagine anything more succulent. Her lips were soft, fully ripe and sweet and she traced them along the seam of his mouth until he let her in, guiding him through the steps of a dance he’d nearly forgotten.

With her curls wrapped around his fingers like ivy, Erik pulled Christine closer, halfway cradling her across his lap. The curves and angles of her, the understated beauty of her neck. When her fingernails scratched a light path on his back, Erik hauled in a ragged breath and raised his heels to bring her closer. 

“Oh, Christine,” he whispered against her skin. Not a religious man, but it sounded like a prayer. He nudged her cheek with his forehead and dragged his lips along her neck, over the ridges of her throat, and felt the fast pulse of her heartbeat against his mouth. 

Christine tugged at his shirt and pulled him down for another kiss. Wet and sliding, and when she drew back, they were both panting, her fingers tucked between the buttons on his shirt. Sparks of touch on his bare chest. A tiny tug and then cool air where she was opening his shirt. Erik leaned his head back, loose and boneless. Lips on his neck; a wonder, a flame.

Touch, the bridge that spanned the gap between longing and having. Her hand on his back, stroking squeezing scratching. Then, a curious pause.

“Erik, I need to go check on the dog.”

His eyes fell back open. “What?” he slurred. Those could not have been the words. 

“I left so fast,” she explained, and traced a thumb over his bottom lip. 

Erik moaned softly. Who knew a moan could be in a minor key? He kissed her thumb and trailed his lips to her wrist. Any part of her near his mouth was fair game. 

“I left my computer rendering and Mr. Satis needs to go out before…” her eyes dipped to his mouth, and her lips parted. 

Not a man to turn down an invitation, Erik bent to kiss her again, but was stopped by her hand on his chest.

“Ten minutes. Give me ten minutes? I’ll be right back,” Christine said, then kissed him before she headed to the door. 

…

Erik showered and had a bottle open in record time. At seven minutes he had fresh sheets on his bed. At nine, he poured wine and set the glasses on the little table. 

At ten minutes, his phone chirped.

.

_He didn’t keep the food down. I’m so sorry._

.

Erik stared at his phone and reached for one of the glasses. Annoyed with himself and a rat dog, he looked around, desperate for something to say. Tile entry, low pile carpet. Couch. Piano. The bedroom had a bed, a chest of drawers, small tables, and a laundry basket. The filing cabinet of music was in his closet. It’s a bit bland, in truth. It’s space that belongs to a man whose attention was elsewhere. 

He swallowed hard as typed his reply. 

.

_Me too. Coffee tomorrow morning? Want to show you something._

.

Christine had made the first move. He could make the second. He would show her where he devoted himself. Maybe she could make it a place for him to come alive again. God, yes. But after the cleaners were done. God help them if they left behind any fishnets.

...


	4. Desecration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik loves clunky old switches and Christine on his stage.

Desecration

There was color. Not much, for his face lacked the flesh for that kind of blood flow, but… color. The flush had lasted the entire night, and little wonder. It's the most he's seen in years.

Action or color.

Erik left the mask off as long as he could and caught occasional glimpses as he passed the bathroom. It wasn't even a matter of being on some subjective scale, but at least he had some color today. Curious. He applied a second layer of cream, then settled the mask in place and grabbed his coat and scarf.

…

The ten minute walk from the courtyard had been awkward, shy, and full of torturous small talk.

The dog was fine now. She'd steamed her carpets three times in two days. Yes, he'd heard dog vomit was a real challenge for textiles. There were entire blogs devoted to how to clean things and wasn't the internet useful?

The cafe door welcomed them with a delicious gust.

Erik felt like an ass. He paid for her latte and his double whatever and they took seats that looked out a window. A handful of students had their laptops on the long wooden table, blearily tapping away. Christine folded her hands, crushing them white.

"This is stupid, isn't it?" Christine said as she glared out at the sidewalk.

"No," Erik answered. "It's painful. But now that it's out of the way-" It wasn't the smoothest line, but she turned her head to look at him and it was what he needed to dust a little kiss on her forehead.

Christine sighed and leaned closer. "I'm still sorry about last night."

The edge of the mask bumped her, and Erik adjusted. "I'm not. Not anymore."

Her fingers laced between his and stayed until their names were mispronounced by the barista.

…

Weather was sure to follow such a dreary sky so, once their drinks were adulterated according to taste, they decided to brave the chilly morning and continue walking. With Christine's hand in his, Erik took her around the corner that led to his second home. The futon in his office was a remnant from when it was his only home.

"I've never been down this way," she said, looking up at the main road storefronts. The street was Sunday morning silent despite recent revitalization. This kind of revitalization didn't do mornings, but it liked the theater scene, so Erik had no objections.

That wasn't quite true. He could always find objections.

"This way," he directed, and pulled heavy keys from his coat pocket. The side door was an unassuming metal affair with no markings beyond a few scratches, flaking paint, and a kick mark in his size.

Christine watched as he pushed the key home and did the jiggle-tug that opened the door. "What is this?" Her eyes were already trying to peer into the darkness.

Erik swallowed against the sudden flutter inside his ribs. "I said I wanted to show you something." He looked over his shoulder and took two steps in. "Well, this is the something." When he turned back, the little smile Christine had carried since the cafe was broader.

Erik held out his hand, an offer, a lure. An invitation to his beating heart, an oddly public place and yet the most personal part of his life. Her hand in his was electrifying and he led her in, past the short entry landing and up the stair, careful to guide her past all the hazards he had yet to correct, until they reached the stage floor landing.

It was nearly pitch black. Thin strips of safety lights on the floor were meant to direct backstage work during lights out, but you had to know their layout to use them. Updates took time and money.

"Come with me, watch your step." He guided her out to the stage. Erik knew every inch of the place, knew where every nail and panel was in the boards. Holding both her hands, he set her exactly where he wanted. "Don't move. Give me one minute!"

The wings and their assorted gear, crates, and the layers of curtains that hung to either side would be nearly invisible, alien, until lit.

"Really, Erik? It's pitch black in here!"

He ran as fast as he could to the lighting controls. The stage itself was modern, but the house lights, over the audience, were still controlled by a huge, clunky switch labeled 'mains'. Erik kind of loved it. It was just so tactile. From the switchplate in the pit, he released the clamp and swung the big handle up, eyes locked on Christine and the stage above as the lights above buzzed.

.

The theater drew breath.

.

"Oh!" Christine yelped. She tapped her feet on the boards and spun, trying to look at everything, her hands over her mouth. Erik stood at the control board and flipped on a few lights, just enough to illuminate the stage.

She turned again, a bright pillar in a sea of black, and looked up into the rigging, to the wings, and walked downstage. "What is this place?"

Erik unfastened the cover from the Steinway and pulled it back. "She seats two hundred in the seats; two-fifty if we get creative with folding chairs. She's got great acoustics and not much else going for her." He dropped his coat onto a chair and rested an arm on the glossy piano. "What do you think?"

"I think it's a theater. With a stage." She sniffed a bit. "And I'm… on it."

"Yes," he said softly, rolling up his cuffs. There was a blade of incandescent energy in his space. "Yes, you are." Erik opened the piano lid and, seeing that there were no surprises inside, set it on the prop and headed to the bench, caressing the curving case as he went. Christine tilted her head, watching his well-practiced routine, and glanced back at the dark passageways.

She looked down at him thoughtfully. "You're not just a musician here, are you?"

He stretched his hands and shrugged. "I'm a musician, and I'm here." The keys danced to his every touch as he ran through a little Bach, a little rock, and finally a few measures of last night's song because he needed to feel that way again.

She was perfect there, here. Here, so close, in the very heart of his everything. "I thought we'd start with warm ups," he said.

…

Christine's voice was not perfect. Her throat was not crystal set in a silver vase. She had skill, was obviously trained, but her transition from chest to head was catchy and she tended to rasp certain sounds.

With some retraining and intensive practice, that could be improved, but the scrape in her voice felt like fingernails scratching his scalp and no pure sound made him shiver like that. Disney voices were a dime a dozen, and every suburban kid who showed talent was shuttled to music lessons, polished until they shined, stage-ready and crisp.

Passionless little robots. They expected leads, but never gave the stage it's due. They didn't know how.

After warming up, Erik let her decide what to sing and she clung to her preferred standards. Shy at first, Erik lowered the lights and kept his eyes on Christine, locked on each other, just like they did every time.

If Christine's stage presence lacked, it was because no one had bothered to give her what she needed. Finding it was so easy Erik almost felt sorry for… New York. New York and all the teachers that tried to teach her precision over passion, pitch over purpose.

Thank god they failed.

Christine did not have a perfect voice, but she was an amazing performer. And she was here, with her eyes on him.

Four songs in, he needed a break. "Take five? My office fridge is dead but the breakroom has water."

Bright from effort and sparkling in the lights, Christine smirked at him. " _Your_ office?"

…

Christine sat on the stage, her legs hanging off into the pit, as she sipped water they'd pilfered from the stagehands fridge. "You've had this place for four years? That's crazy."

He fiddled with a few notes, riffing random bits that came to mind like errant thoughts. "What's crazy is that we're still open."

"Sounds like you're doing pretty well."

"I've got a place to live and I can see a live show most days. Life is pretty good, even if I have to fix the plumbing myself sometimes." Erik laughed to himself. Funds were short and he'd rather spend them on productions when he could.

Christine swung her legs and looked up into the rafters. There it was again- that dreamy smile. She'd had it last night before she remembered all the things she'd abandoned. "It sounds like heaven."

Shit, she was waiting for him. If Erik kept dawdling, he'd miss this chance and fall further behind her. Like missing a cue and flailing to recapture the song.

"No," Erik swallowed when she looked back at him curiously. It was cheesy, but was what he could come up with. "You sound like heaven."

Her legs stopped swinging. It was strange, to be this far from her while at a piano. Maybe it was the night before- all the nights before. She'd never been more than a few feet away but here, in a half lit theater, she was across a cavern.

"Play me a song?" she asked, breathy and low.

Eric turned to the keys. "What song?" he whispered, and heard the sound of footsteps coming down the steps. He kept his hands at the ready while his entire body listened, waited, for her.

A trace of a touch on his neck. She was so close, right at his back. "You pick. One song."

Her warmth seeped through the slip of space and into Erik's back. After last night, this was a good day for coming full circle, for rebooting. With her tracing his edges, skimming over his shoulders and up to his jaw, Erik's hands pressed gently into the opening bars. He'd come to associate her with this piece, and nothing could be more fitting. It was fulfilling- simple, satisfyingly complete in every way.

Her first request.

Touch, at his neck again. Symphonic rhyme and cascading resolutions. Her fingertips traced downwards as he entered the second part of the song; dipped along his collar. It had been years since he'd last missed a note in this piece, but Erik's hands juddered over a waterfall of notes as Christine tilted his head back and smoothed her hands over his throat, his chest.

"Christine." Her wrists were small, stilling as he held them in place under his palm. Erik turned his face to the soft warmth of her arm and breathed. What a picture they must make, he imagined, his too-thin self framed by her. In her.

A jolt up his spine. It had been abstract, this thought. Until last night he'd been content to bask in her voice and enthusiasm. Until last night he'd barely touched her. Couldn't. Complication.

Desecration.

Erik raised a hand, abandoning the pretense of the piano, and reached up Christine's arm until he cupped her shoulder. The knob of bone turned as she held him more tightly, slipping a hand from under his to trace his throat again, upwards to his jaw.

A trickle of fear passed through him, The mask. Erik swallowed roughly under her touch and gently stopped her at his jawline, kissing the pads of her fingers. "Not that. Let it be."

She paused. It was possible that was a deal breaker. It had been before. "Okay." Her fingertips skimmed the edge of his face, careful of the mask itself. Breath on his ear hazed his vision.

"Erik, please."

It was the please. Once he'd turned himself around she'd wasted no time getting close, and he'd wasted no time helping. Unfortunately, piano benches were awkward at best, and Christine's knee would be rubbed raw before long. In an act of sublime miscalculation, Erik hitched his pleasant lapful higher to shift the weight off Christine's knee.

Streams of blasphemy echoed through the backstage, punctuated by throaty laughter. The stair to his office was most certainly not where he'd left it.

...

A half hearted attempt at remodeling had occured in the 1980's. The result was a lazy melange of poorly installed flooring, paneling, chipping formica counters, and occasional glass-block windows throughout the offices and backstage areas of the theater.

While Erik generally ignored these things (why throw a fit over what could not be changed?) for the first time he grudgingly appreciated his window. The awkward four by eight block window, with it's flaking grout and leaky edges, broke up the late morning sun and threw wobbly light across the office.

It even made the decidedly unromantic futon almost appealing.

No, that was Christine.

Her breath on his neck, her shape in his hands, voice in his ears. She was everywhere and in reach. Erik reached and felt her heel by his knee and slid his hand up, pausing to feel her ankle bone and shin, the way her muscles flexed in counterpoint when he pressed up.

The shattered light scattered in her hair, and he raised a handful of coils, a curtain of intertwining rings. Crochet lace in backlit gold.

Her legs flexed and his vision blurred again. Every experience he'd ever had before faded like so many forgettable cello solos. Christine's curves, smooth and pulsing, smothered them and warmed the chilly void they'd left behind.

She took his hand and led it under her shirt; tendersoft and luscious. It wasn't long before he pushed her shirt up and had her in his mouth, his knees bent to prop her closer. When her fingernails dug into his shoulders, Erik reached down and slipped his hand between them. The pink in her cheeks went darker, staining her throat and chest.

The world went upside down, at once frantic, grinding, and tight. A stack of scripts and music splattered across the floor and the bookcases of scuffed patchwork bindings threatened to follow. In Erik's ears, incoherent rhapsodies competed with Christine's sighs and she's overwhelming. She's divine.

.

She's…

.

"Christine," he cried when she tightened into precious stillness above him, her head thrown back. Her curls tickled his knees and his knuckles taste like passion.

With breaths that caught in the same places as her singing voice, Christine loosened. "C'mere," she said and tucked herself under him, dragging him back, directly on top of her.

A moment of fear as she cupped his face in her hands and then only the thought that kissing is good, so very good and why had they stopped even for a moment? It should be now, now, only ever now because she is so good and soft and warm and

The bar over Christine's head creaked and the metal legs have long worn through the pads they came with. The legs scraped over the floor and Christine panted and rose up to meet him and _yes that's it there_ that's how he will finish her song.

Her voice and his music. His ears rang for five minutes.

...

Limp and shaky. The light had changed and it had to be nearly noon. On Sunday. A quartet tonight.

"Look who's awake."

Erik tried to sit up and quickly abandoned the effort. "Come back. We can call for delivery."

Christine giggled and nudged his side with her toes. "There's people walking around the theater. Someone is going to come looking for you eventually. And I need to check on the dog soon."

A groan had never sounded so smug, even in his own ears. "Alright, but I don't have to like it." Erik hauled himself up and was well rewarded. He'd honestly forgotten how good kissing could be, and Christine's legs across his lap were just such a nice touch.

"Hey, we kind of made a mess," she said, gesturing around his office.

Erik looked down at the stacks of scripts spilled across his office floor, hand written notes in every place but where he'd tucked them, and binders of music covered in sticky notes, dozens of which had found liberation from the compositions they had annotated.

With a shrug, Erik nudged Christine's cheek to turn for another kiss. "Yeah, well. They never had it so good."

...


	5. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elephant in the room.

Erik had many regrets. He regretted that he skipped so many classes in school. He regretted not seeing his mother before she passed. He regretted wasting years searching for a treatment for the untreatable. Then again, he always had perfect grades, his mother refused to see him, and he managed to save enough to buy a theater so, all in all, he probably had fewer regrets than most.

However, sitting at the upright piano in the recital room, Erik regretted every time he ever raised an eyebrow and told one of his staff to ‘just rewrite that part’, or ‘edit that bit’. He’d furiously pitched a handful of crumpled papers over the piano an hour ago.

He’d forgotten how hard this was. Little wonder, it had been years since he’d last written something original, and now he was fighting to find that rhythm again, slip his mind into that groove. He was just so rusty at this.

Erik paused. He’d been rusty at a lot of things, but Christine hadn’t minded. The lines of faint scratches on his shoulders and the little lurch his insides did every time he thought about them could attest to that. That and the afternoon kiss in the courtyard as the first cold rains began. And the text.

Rusty, but still capable despite the years of neglect at that, too. No regrets there either, really, though he had forgotten about the chafing.

…

Tired after another long day, Erik dragged himself home Monday evening after the regular show was underway. It was a low stakes variety show of local singers and dancers for a small but devoted crowd of theater subscribers who never failed to help promote their favorites. A few subscribers were prominent influencers, so Erik did all he knew to keep them happy.

A text came during lunch.

.  
_Will you play for me tonight?_  
.

 

He’d spent the day alternating between a frenzy of paperwork and finances and climbing the dizzying heights of the rafters and rigging. It wouldn’t have been half so bad if he’d had some sleep, but he’d be damned if he let a first year intern run the lines alone. Once he was back on the ground, the first subscribers had arrived and he had to dash to his office and change into a suit. Dust never settled on his stage.

.  
_I want nothing more._  
.

…

It took three tries to get his keys in the door, but he finally managed. 

Whiskey. It was a whiskey night. His reply wasn’t quite true. He wanted more, but satisfaction came in puzzle pieces and it was up to you to solve. If he needed to wait, Christine was worth every second.

A quick shower and a layer of cream. Erik grimaced. The tops of ridges, cheekbones, and his brow were a little red. Not bad, he’d just been under the mask more than usual lately, but it was trouble brewing.

He smoothed his damp hair down and settled the mask into place just in time to hear a light tap at the door. After a few seconds there was another tap, so Erik went to the door and swung it open. 

“It’s always unlocked for you, you know,” he said as he leaned against the frame.

Christine looked sheepish. “I didn’t know if anything had… changed.”

Erik drew her close and locked the door behind her. She was warm and sweet and it was just so easy to kiss the top of her head, feel the curls spring against his chin. Blankets draped on his sofa, a stepstool in his kitchen. Balcony light brightening the shadows.

“Yes, things have changed, Christine.”

She pulled back and looked up at him, her face scrunching a bit. “I, Erik if--”

“I’ve got two bottles of your favorite white wine, and I usually stick to reds and liquor so yeah… things have changed.” 

…

They never made it to the piano. 

It was strange, this circling, orbiting of each other. Erik pretended to look over music while Christine pretended to get ready. Both of them in the kitchen, no need for two people to make tea. 

Need two to kiss, though.

It takes two to kiss, to breathe the same air. Touch with one is good but with two it was splendor. Christine pulled up his shirt and slid her hand along his back. She smiled against his lips when he shuddered.

When two can touch, tea is forgotten.

Christine liked soft things; her clothes, her speech, and her manners spoke of kindness. Outward kindness was a product of inward softness, and a willingness to remain so. The world was out to make hard, dull golems of everyone, and it was only through sheer will that she had refused.

Being a golem himself, Erik had a certain appreciation for that, and he nudged the neck of her shirt aside to tongue her shoulder. Pressure at his back, sharp points. Her blunt fingernails dug into him for a moment, leaving impressions on him. A reminder that he, too, is soft, and not the machine he has become these last few years.

Christine pushed him lightly against the counter and set herself astride his thigh, her heat melting. “Hey,” she whispered against his neck. 

They’d taken each other by surprise last time, ended up being chased rather than chasing something together. Erik wasn’t going to let that happen again, so he braced his body against the counter and planted his foot between hers.

“Hey,” he said back, and swallowed hard when Christine pressed herself to his thigh. Her eyes fluttered, half closed, so Erik held her close and delicately plucked her glasses off and set them on the counter.

Saturday had been good. Very good. But composers know beauty isn’t all crescendo and crash. Erik was a composer. Admittedly, as a lover he was a little untried, but Christine blinked darkened eyes up at him with a loose smile and tugged his arm to follow. She passed the sofa, thankfully, and let him take the lead to his bedroom.

The balcony light did not reach here, and the sun had set and taken the last of twilight with it. No gold illumination to set her edges on fire, but a cool glow from the window helped in the dark room. She found the bed and he found her arms, stretching out beside her. As a parade of doubt began to creep into his mind, Christine wrapped an arm over him and kissed him, her tongue darting along his lips.

Not a golem. A golem's heart does not beat so fast. “Christine,”

“Shhh,” she sighed, and plundered him. It was slow, aching, and perfect. Her leg slid up and over him, and his hands found purchase at the dip of her waist. He toyed with the tight cord at the back of her knee, plucking a bow.

Fabric makes a strangely comforting sound when it flies in the dark, crumpling in a heap that might be a nudged blanket or a shirt. Underthings are not to be thrown, but slipped away and set aside. The satin linings of instrument cases held precious things and so did these. 

Christine’s breaths are cool on Erik’s shoulder and she is tender on his tongue. Alternating softness and angles, yielding and hot. Her moans above him vibrate in his mouth. When her voice broke, her fingers raked his scalp and he climbed back to her, over her legs, for a kiss.

“Oh god, your mask,” she panted.

It was still there, he’d checked. Oh. Oh.

“It’s seen worse,” he dismissed, and dipped low for her lips as he settled.

Eyes full of fog stared back, confused.

Erik grinned. “Spaghetti. I’ll never make that mistake again.”

As far as Erik was concerned, when loving and laughter meet, both are improved. Christine laughed until she clutched his sides and threw her head back, shaking. Then her giggles returned. It was a little strange until her throaty laughter caused her to tighten in the best way. When Erik could think again, he resolved to be a jester in their bed.

…

As they hummed, kissed, and petted each other, Christine’s eyes regained their focus. Erik found himself the target of her attention as well as her affections. Her touch was cool on his hairline.

“You’re red.”

Erik cracked open an eye. “I’m blushing.”

Christine frowned. “You need more breaks from this,” she lightly tapped the porcelain. 

Erik gently batted her hand away and tucked her head under his chin. “I promise. As soon as you go to that repulsive rat-dog, I’ll take it off.”

A fingertip traced his collarbone. Slowly, a tiny point of cold in their warm nest.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Christine whispered, lips grazing him. “Not around me.”

He swallowed hard to stop harsh words. She didn’t know, didn’t deserve them. He was older now, had been here before. Had practiced for this. “Christine, I’d prefer if your first look at me didn’t involve us being naked. I’m not sure I can handle your reaction.”

The cool trailing on his chest stopped. “I loved my first look at you.”

He was going to be sick. He broke into a sweat under the mask and felt a flush rise, then run to ice. “What? What did you say, Christine?”

She propped her chin on his chest, just below his sternum. If he had a nose, she’d be looking right up it. “I said, I loved my first look at you.” She was bouncing up and down a bit. He was starting to hyperventilate. 

“I never… never…”

“Shhhh,” she said as she crept up for a kiss, and Erik’s breath came in slower. Still panting, but slower.

Erik thought, but came up empty. All those sessions in his apartment and… nothing. “I never took it off for you.”

Christine smiled down at him. “You applauded me, you goof.” She kissed the tip of his chin. “You ran onto your balcony, and I guess you forgot it.”

Oh. He’d been mortified and confused that night, but didn’t really connect all those dots. One small humiliation gets lost in a sea of them, and he’d been busy since then. Busy with the wiring, plumbing, finances, insurance, music, and sort of, maybe, falling in love.

Love. Wild things lived in that word. 

He drew a shuddering breath.

Christine brushed her lips against his jaw. “So now you know. What’s under that mask cheered for me. No one else has. So when you’re ready, that’s what I’ll be thinking of.”

…

The mask was off once Christine left to tend Mr. Pretty and her current project. Once Erik finished carefully patting his face, a thought struck him. If they could get past the mask, she could spend the night.

Wait, the dog.

She wouldn't have to leave if she brought the dog with her.

A _dog_? If he kept the bedroom door closed, it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe.

And the dog was very ugly. _Really_ ugly. Erik laughed as he collapsed back into bed and buried his face in a Christine-scented pillow. 

Maybe the dog could wear a mask.

...


	6. Duomo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a bit unfair, you know,” Erik said, kneeling a bit. “Ugly dogs get contests and fundraisers. I’m ugly, and I have to wear a mask and stay backstage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering, I mostly imagine Muirin007's Leroux Erik as my story model. :) He looks like a human rendering of a gothic cathedral to me.

Erik rubbed his eyes gently and looked back at the screen. Disappointingly, the spreadsheet did not improve.

Damn. He'd spent the last few days doing his financials in preparation for the holiday season and it wasn't what he'd hoped. The doors would stay open, sure, but there wouldn't be enough for real improvements or meaningful retrofitting.

His days as the owner and manager, as well as program director, musical advisor, stage overseer, accountant, financial planner, and, as the need arose, plumber, would continue. Erik had hoped to hire at least some of the workload out. Not that the students and interns didn't do well, but once they knew a few things, they left or went back to school. The range of skills they learned meant they were in high demand, but his return on investment was dismal.

It wasn't for lack of quality that they left but, if pressed, Erik might admit there was a certain lack of polish or perhaps originality to the recent repertoire. Which meant developing new shows. Which meant time and effort.

Erik's shoulders drooped. The point of this exercise was to find the slack so he could relax, even a fraction, not drive himself even harder. A few years ago he might not have minded; hadn't, in fact. He knew what a seventy hour week felt like- whirling, wild, and magical. Exhausting and busy.

Busy enough to forget how lonely it was. Surrounded by people, yet lonely.

His phone chirped.

.

_Finished a job! Free to celebrate?_

.

He hadn't seen Christine in three days. Maybe that was why he was being a morose bastard.

.

_I have champagne._

.

Without a chance for an assistant in sight, the coming season would make days like these frequent. Long, tedious days. Long days would be easy to face if Christine was there to help with the cold, lonely nights. And that was up to him, wasn't it?

.

_Champagne? Is it cold?_

.

He hadn't had champagne since the company completed their last big run what, four? Five months ago? Three glasses and then back to his office to start writing the checks. Prior to that, he could count on his hands the times he'd bothered with it.

.

_Of course._

.

She was on her way. Erik got out two champagne flutes and held them by the stems. Funny, he'd never opened champagne in this apartment, yet once he knew Christine had landed a big job, he'd immediately bought a bottle for the day she finished.

Christine sparkled with laughter and kissed his neck and chin when she arrived. She whooped with glee at the loud pop of the cork, and giggled when the fizz tickled her nose.

"So," she began when he poured her second glass. "Do you always keep some bubbly on ice or did you have other plans for this?" Christine held up her glass, bubbles streaking up the sides in tiny stripes.

This kind of happiness was the best disease. Erik bent for a quick kiss, hoping to catch more. "You know, it's the strangest thing."

"What?"

"Not sure what it is, but I always feel like celebrating these days."

Oh, he was buying a case next time.

…

It is said that no work is ever finished, but merely abandoned. Erik's critical eye scoured over the bars and stanzas of his work and still found it wanting.

The music itself would be glorious. The half-finished lyrics- lovely. A counterweight, carefully measured to neither outshine nor hide behind the singer it accompanied. It built and crested, was given structure by brass, then capped off with crashing percussion and towering strings. There was just one problem.

Christine would never choose it for herself. Okay, maybe not never, but it wasn't what she liked. Wasn't what she asked for when they sang together. Erik sighed as he ran a hand down his face, rubbing at the strain in his eyes.

It was beautiful. Beauty wasn't enough.

How ironic.

A sharp rap at Erik's office door brought his attention back to the present, so he closed his laptop and slipped the mask back on. Before he rose from his desk, he scrawled a little note:

_Write for Christine, not the audience. Not yourself._

The next three hours were spent glad-handing patrons and hoping his accounts would reflect it soon.

…

The winds were too cold to leave the balcony doors open. Erik disliked the way the closed space flattened Christine's voice, but he couldn't broach it yet. Couldn't ask her to sing in the theater for anything other than fun on empty mornings until he had a piece ready for her.

As they took a break for water and fresh drinks, Erik tapped at his laptop and opened a file of new fliers and playbills his company had prepared. As he flipped through them, Christine sipped her tea and looked at the screen.

"Who made those?"

Erik zoomed in on an image and grimaced. It was badly pixelated and poorly cut from another image. "A guy from the company. He did his best."

Christine sipped her wine. "How much did you pay?"

"Pizza and a six pack."

"Hmm," Christine set her drink on the table and got out her phone. She swiped and tapped, then held it up for him to see. "Here. Work sample. Give me three days and I'll have these polished up."

Erik took the phone. Within a few seconds he wanted whatever the images were selling. He didn't even own a cat, but if he did, he'd buy this… thing.

It was settled. "How much?"

She laughed. "No charge, but I expect benefits."

…

Three hours of Erik's day were suddenly freed when a patron generously offered to coordinate a union safety inspection for him. The patron got one-on-one time with the cast and crew, an unlimited, all-access pass for the day, and an insider's view of some updates he'd helped pay for.

Erik got to sit the hell down. It was a win-win.

The futon was not so dreary now. Despite the lumpy cushion and eroded finish, it wasn't such a bad spot. Positive associations were funny like that.

Erik gave a half smile when he heard a crinkle and found an errant scrap of paper just under a slat of the armrest. He plucked the paper free and unfolded it. It was one of the notes that had flown free a few days before. He skimmed the note, recalling the musical it was from.

_Overlay scene with theme as character 1 has emotional reveal._

He really wasn't looking for a poignant reminder, yet here it was.

He had planned on taking a nap. Now all he could think about was the comfort in Christine's arms and the softness he found there. Erik leaned back, rested his head on a board and imagined falling asleep beside her, skin still tingling from her touch, the ease of a bed that was already warm and the way her curls would float on the pillows. To wake up with her, mushy and creased from sleep, both of them vulnerable and so very, very right. Erik knew what he had to do, but the how of it blocked his path.

How do you overcome a lifetime of hiding and overcompensation?

How… rude. Now his nap was ruined.

Erik was beginning to answer his own questions when the safety inspection finished and he had to abandon his train of thought to answer the union rep's questions. The patron was keen to continue his own backstage tour, and picked Erik's brain for another hour over the chipped paneling and the outdated house light switch. Things Erik knew needed work, but he just didn't have the means.

Everything needed work, but some things deserved his attention more than others.

…

It was nearly eight, and the streaking sunlight that once ushered in his evening music had long set. The last suggestions of purple had faded an hour ago, leaving the courtyard below black but for the floating lights hanging from skeletal tree limbs.

Erik tapped his fingertips on the door frame. Christine was working on the new fliers, playbills, and posters and said she might have something ready tomorrow or the day after.

That was good. Great, really, but Erik had made a decision and needed to follow through before he backed out. He'd backed out of that first kiss and hated that he did- he might have been kissing Christine a whole day earlier if he hadn't gotten tied up in himself. So here he was, not tied up, at risk of backing out again.

Erik surveyed the room carefully. Every cue, every prop, in precise position. The stage was set. Once she opened the unlocked door, there was no going back.

He opened the balcony door and welcomed the rush of cold air, sharp with the tang of snow. He turned on the balcony light and left the others off, then he tapped a message and sat at the piano.

_Open your balcony door._

He'd last played Schubert's Ave at her request. Tonight he played it as a summons. She would come. She had to. Christine would have to walk closer to see him, would have to take the last steps. Erik had come as far as he could.

The mask was on the kitchen counter; close enough to be seen, but out of reach. Christine would see it when she walked in and he'd be at the piano, barefaced. More naked than he'd been in years.

The subdued variations he created were as delicate as the floating lights in the garden below. Achingly beautiful, with gentle rises and falls like wavelets lapping at the shore. Understated questions from a supplicant. Long lost from one devotion and falling headfirst into a new one.

He began the song again. Perhaps she was not home. Perhaps she was simply enjoying the song.

Perhaps that was the door.

"Erik?" Her voice came from behind him, as though she'd stopped to contemplate the mask on her way. His stomach lurched, and he missed a note.

"Shhh," Christine hushed, and began to sing, her lack of warm up leaving her catchy and full of gravel and butterscotch. A touch, just at the back of his neck, soothing his hunched shoulders, before drifting forward to his throat and chin. Her favorite places to kiss.

Cool fingers lifted his chin and Erik abandoned Schubert. Tears burned in his eyes and he closed them. Maybe it wasn't her first look but it was it was _his_ face. His own feelings were confused and muddied.

Silence rang in his ears, darkness behind his lids. A light touch wiped away a tear.

"You know, they say eyes are the windows to the soul," Christine whispered.

One eye at a time, Erik opened and looked up. She was so soft in this light. Her brow was frowning but her trembling lips (the ones he kissed and kissed) were just turned up at the corners. Compassion and pity are cousins but they are not the same.

Erik cleared his throat. "In some cases, they forgot to hang drapes." He was without the softness of flesh. Hard angles and exposed sub structure like abandoned framework.

Her cool hands cupped his face, thumbs lightly grazing his cheekbones. "You don't hang curtains in a cathedral."

…

A dry throat woke Erik during the night and he untangled himself from Christine, careful not to wake her. As reluctant as he was to get up, it was sort of nice- he got another look at everything he'd never had before. He had someone in his bed to not disturb.

Erik leaned against the sink and drank deeply, then turned to face his other guest. They were a package deal.

"Hello, Pretty." Erik said softly. The dog had been watching him from the moment he emerged from the bedroom.

The dog's bushy eyebrows twitched and it gave a low whuff.

"It's a bit unfair, you know," Erik said, kneeling a bit. "Ugly dogs get contests and fundraisers. I'm ugly, and I have to wear a mask and stay backstage."

This close to the floor, a certain scent made Erik splutter. A dark circle in the carpet pooled around a piano leg.

He gritted his teeth. "You son of a-"

Before he could finish, a sleepy sound came from the bedroom. "Erik? Are you coming back?"

The dog looked up at him accusingly.

Erik stood, charitably not strangling the offending rat dog. "We may both be ugly, but I have a theater. Don't you forget it." He closed the door behind him and made a mental note to soak the carpet.

He promptly forgot the moment Christine snuggled against his back.

...


	7. Calendar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holiday season schedule is set. Erik has made a few special additions.

...

_Write for Christine, not the audience. Not yourself._

...

With a satisfied sigh, Erik dropped his pen and surveyed the work. There were two now, actually. One was a now a triumph, with or without vocals. In it, a well trained voice would be lifted on overlapping layers of delicate strings, golden horns, and thunderous drums. It ended with an understated measure, like an uncomplicated signature at the end of a blockbuster novel.

The second was for her. Written specifically for her. He'd spent a week stripping the texture and decorations off the song for Christine, leaving behind a clean melody ripe for a spotlight and microphone.

It had been a challenge. Not many torch songs were written for sopranos. Erik supposed that made it a triumph as well.

The words, too, were as close to his heart as anything he'd ever written. After so many years of staying out of sight, behind the scenes, setting the stage for other people's stories, here he was putting his own out there. He'd forgotten how vulnerable it made him feel.

Can't put lyrics behind a mask.

A glance at the clock made him wince and he set the work aside to polish later. He had to be up and at the theater in a few hours, and while it was only a Tuesday, there was still work to be done. Schedules to build; hours to fill.

With a sidestep around the dog bed, Erik snuck back into his bedroom and slid under the covers. Warmth. There was warmth here and he sought it out.

"Hmmm? Can't sleep?" Christine rolled towards him, bringing that heat with her. A lifetime of people turning away and even in sleep she turns towards him.

"Sorry I woke you."

A push at his knees. Erik tried to make room, but a clumsy grip pulled him closer until she slid her leg between his, then started pushing his shirt up. Kisses warmed away the chill and Erik's heart juddered under her lips. Unimaginable, this sleepy intimacy, but he lifted up when she tugged at his soft pants and rolled with her, surrounded by her.

He hadn't expected it, wouldn't have thought to even ask, but he cherished every time she reached for him, every kiss and touch. Lazy and slow movements contrasted with heightened senses, sharp and aware. Angles and cushions, the shape of sighs and the color of melodies. Harmonious counterpoint and accompaniment. The cozy smell of sleep was quickly saturated with lovemaking and Erik braced his weight, sliding a hand under her to anchor himself, lest he float away.

The hours could wait. It _was_ just a Tuesday.

…

There would be three separate productions of The Nutcracker that year. The youth academy would run for two nights first, followed by a four night engagement with the amateur guild, and finally the professionals would take the rest of the season, running from mid December to Christmas eve. Each run had increasingly complex sets and props, so downtime would be tight. And yet.

Erik flipped the calendar over to a blank sheet and picked up his pen. Things went wrong at the best, newest theaters, and his was neither. It was safe and functional, but reliability and polish weren't her strong suits. All performers knew the holidays were madness and one mishap or overlooked detail could derail days of coveted stage time. While that might be true, Erik also knew that families liked the bright lights and escape of theater. Even his.

He started scribbling. When he finished two hours later, there was room for nearly every regular performing group to have time, provided everyone played nice. The quartets could have their holiday shows, along with the madrigals, the high school band, carolers and yes, even the Rocky Horror fans could get in a special holiday themed night, though they were absolutely not allowed in until the ballet crowd was completely gone.

That left one slot. It took half the morning, but he'd carved out one slot on a quieter night, before the last amateur Nutcracker performance. He'd even picked out a name, Torch Hour with Christine Daae.

Now he just had to ask her.

As he pressed the heels of his hands against his aching forehead, a knock came at his door. "Boss? Got a letter."

Erik slipped on his mask and unlocked his door. "Are you serious? An actual letter?"

The stage hand shrugged. "No kidding," she said as she shoved the letter into Erik's hands and hurried back to the stage.

The paper was thick and heavy. Actual stationery. With a seal on the back? Really? He turned over the letter to find out who had the fetish.

The Historical Society. What in the world did they want?

...

It was a cold evening. Christine snuggled under a blanket and sang under her breath while she sketched while Erik brewed tea. The edge of the folder with her music was growing dog eared from his nervous picking and the mindless task was helpful. Sort of.

"What are you working on?"

Christine smiled. "I was just drawing a set I saw once. I liked the curving lines, so I'm just playing with them a little." She held up her notebook for him to see.

It was simple. Absurdly so. It was the kind of design that the untrained could grasp and therefore thought it was easy. What the untrained did not know was how hard it was to take difficult things and make them look easy.

He swallowed. The folder would fall apart if he didn't ask soon. "Would you consider doing some more work for the theater?" _For me?_

Christine set her sketchpad aside and joined him in the kitchen. She opened her arms and wrapped Erik in a hug so the blanket cocooned them. "Love to. Whatcha got?"

He had the calendar in his bag. "I need to get the seasonal playbills out in time for _The Nutcrackers_."

She looked up. "I thought it was just _The Nutcracker_?"

"Not when you have three productions," he said and reluctantly left her arms to get the calendar. Christine took it and glanced down the list, skimming. Erik watched her and carefully poured tea.

Her gaze paused, and stalled. Oh, she saw it.

Christine looked up. "What's this?"

"The, ah, schedule." He sipped and it was too hot.

"No," she pointed to the line. Her line. With her name on it. "I mean what is this?"

Erik took another sip to buy a few seconds. "You said you wanted to perform," his voice sounded small. He never sounded small. "It's a short set, just three or four songs."

"But, I'm not not ready. I'll have to practice." Christine set down the schedule and stared at it warily.

Erik put aside his tea and reached for the music folder. "But you have been. We've been getting ready for months. You sing twice that much every night for fun with me. And, there's three weeks. That's plenty of time"

She let the blanket fall off one shoulder. "For what?"

The dog-eared folder was right there, waiting. Erik took a deep breath. "Plenty of time for this." He opened the folder and handed her the sheets.

She did not just read it. She devoured it. By the time Christine reached the end of the piece, her eyes swam with tears.

Oh. Oh no. It was too much. It was over the top. He'd tried to make something sweet, something pretty and honest that said everything in his heart and he'd gone and made her cry. Erik reached to take the pages. "If you don't like it-"

With a soft _whump_ , she had him pinned against the counter. "I love it," she held the pages tightly in one hand and stroked his cheek, his bare skin, with the other. "Don't you dare change anything."

…

A few days of practice and Christine was able to perform his song without tears. A few runs on stage and she'd work out the worst jitters. She'd nearly backed out when he suggested the staff pianist accompany her, so Erik wisely decided to never mention the idea again.

And so he would play for her. Her stage debut, and he would not see it.

But he would hear it. Feel it. Be a part of it, from the safety of the pit. Somebody else would have to announce her or he'd have to jog from the microphone in his gangly, masked glory, and descend into the orchestra pit to play for his angel.

Christ, he hated being a living metaphor.

A text message interrupted his moody grump.

.

_Finished the playbill. Want to pop down and proof before I sent it to your printer?_

.

Thank god. He'd actually make a deadline for once. Everything he'd had printed lately had been an emergency rush job. He'd paid the penalty fee in tickets last time.

.

_Bringing a cocktail, you angel._

.

He double checked the number on the door before he knocked, then nearly dropped the glass when she opened the door.

"Hey there," she said with a kiss, "I had to edit your regular ads to keep them in line with the season, didn't think that would be a problem," Christine said as she closed the door behind him. "Any objections to an ugly sweater themed page? No?"

Erik stared at nothing. He thought his apartment was bare. Christine's studio had… nothing. A computer, one cushion on the floor, a dog bed, and a mattress on a platform.

She passed around him and talked on. "Your printer said they'll handle the pagination, so I didn't bother, but if it saves a bit per page, I can get that done by tomorrow. Oh, and I meant to ask, is the back page set or did you want me to add something along with the normal quote? A menorah or wreath, maybe? Erik?"

The walls were bare. A free calendar with cats from the animal shelter, mostly blank boxes. Mr. Pretty bounced at his legs happily.

"Erik?" Christine looked nervous. "Is something wrong?"

Everything. Absolutely everything was wrong and needed to be fixed. Now.

"Live with me."

She froze. "What?"

"I'll push the piano to the side of the room and buy you a desk. My closet's too big anyway."

Christine looked to the side. "I, um…"

Erik set the drink on the counter. "Sorry, I didn't phrase it as a question. _Will_ you live with me?"

She blinked, glanced at the dog, the computer, then went to the counter and brushed at the condensation from the glass. When she finally looked up, she wiped her eyes, smiling.

"Well, you play a mean piano, and you _totally_ bought those blankets for me. Your pros column is in good shape."

"Would it help if I say please?"

It did.

...


	8. Blur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last month flashes before Erik's eyes as he prepares to play for Christine's debut.

...

She wore gold.

...

Holiday seasons at the theater were magnificently, horrifyingly busy, and this one especially so. By the time one show left the stage, the next was setting up in the wings. Quartets performed amidst crumbling Nutcracker sets while bleary-eyed stagehands apologetically cleared bits between songs and the madrigal singers, twinkling bold in red and green, gave side-eyes to slippered pastel confections of snowflakes and fairies.

Keeping the peace was a full time job. So was coordinating the whole mess. But for the first time he had help, which meant he slept every night. He even had time to work with Christine, but only on the music. 

Of course Erik worried. He didn’t need to.

...

A small desk had been enough for Christine’s computer, and though his piano looked a little cramped after they shifted it closer to the wall, he didn’t mind. When they were both working it was easy to reach out and find her.

Unsurprisingly, Erik didn’t accomplish much from home that first week.

They had finished practicing for the evening, so Christine worked on a layout for a new job while he’d relaxed at the keys, his phone on stand by while his crew ran the prep for the first Nutcracker. Classic interludes traded measures with pieces of new ideas. A notebook lived at his side these days and the pages filled quickly with hastily jotted measures and bits of lyrics. 

His space had transformed. The sound of her favorite cup touching down. The thoughtful ring of a spoon against ceramic blending with his music. The way she took her coffee was becoming as familiar as the feel of her.

Contentment. It was more intoxicating than anything in his cabinet, yet made him sharper, more creative, than he’d ever felt before. Her song had only been the beginning. This feeling… it flowed smooth and thick. Syrup in his veins. Delicious.

She leaned back and stretched, apparently satisfied with her current work. 

“Did you have that phone call today?”

“I did,” he said as he bridged into a nocturne. “They gave me some things to think about.”

Christine stood and took her cup to the kitchen for more coffee. “Such as?” She refilled his as well. Effortless, she did little things without thinking.

He let the notes fade, thanked her and took his cup back. “They like the place. That donor who had the tour the other day is the vice president. He decided the old girl is a worthy cause.” 

“Hmm,” she hummed as she sipped, then sat in her chair and propped her legs in his lap. “Any specifics?”

And what lovely legs they were. “He liked the entryway. Thinks it’s worth restoring.” He absently stroked up her calf. “And some of the old electricals.”

Christine smiled. “That big switch you like so much?”

“I love that switch. They can put up matching funds, help with grants, and find more donors, things like that. It’s not a lot of money, but they liked the schedule and regular shows.”

She set her cup on her desk. “What’s the catch?”

Erik shrugged, thumbing the hollow behind her knee. “There’s paperwork. It’s nitpicky stuff, but even a few grants would secure the next decade or more.”

“That’s not a catch.”

He snorted and tugged her closer. “It is if you hate paperwork.”

Christine wrapped herself around him. “Let me worry about the paperwork. You keep the doors open.”

Words. There were words he wanted to say, but they got caught halfway. Somewhere between his stuttering brain and his well-occupied tongue, those words took detours and ended up elsewhere. 

The good news was they were going to get a lot done. The better news was that it was going to get done later.

 

...

...

 

On his cue, the big switch was lowered and the house lights dimmed. He loved this moment. It was why he bought the place; the energy, the sheer potential of an empty stage. That potential was shaped with every note, word, and movement.

And she wore gold.

 

...

During that last exhausted week he stole a quarter hour here and there. It was hard to get more since so much was happening. That was fine. Erik respected that. As a result, despite the strange hours they practiced, the crew and interns saw them, heard her. It was inevitable. 

He hadn’t paid much attention. He’d had enough to do to keep on schedule and to play and coach her. He’d set the mics himself and made sure there was balance. His playing and her voice, keeping time with his heart. His words caressed by her voice. 

He should have known the stagehands would talk. 

Their last few runs on the music had helped Christine be comfortable on the stage and adjust to the space. Knowing his theater’s quirks, Erik was able to help her refine her approach. She shouldn’t back off her volume in the second verse, the space could take it, and if her upper register was touched with a little strain it would read as emotion, not lack of skill.

He gave critique to the lighting guys at the same time; full haze with a touch of red. Even without costuming, she was great. By the third run, the light made her glow and her voice was tender, distilled passion. 

It made him shudder.

The hour may have been extreme but the place was never empty this time of year. Cases of energy drinks were delivered every week, so it should have been no surprise when a few of them paused their frantic work to listen.

At the time, Erik thought nothing of it when a stagehand held up his phone.

 

...

...

 

His hands had always shown a curious readiness, an energy like the empty stage. He hovered over the keys, waiting for the polite applause to taper. Curious mumbles. She was an an unknown quantity that three radio stations had turned out for. Her half hour set, tucked between a holiday jazz improv session and the last amateur Nutcracker, had cross sectional appeal and a packed house to hear it. 

Only the public radio station was allowed to record. Erik wasn’t all sunshine these days.

He’d been clinical up to now, but that was before. It had only been their song then. Two hundred and fifty people were about to objectively pick apart his most intimate thoughts, his sing-song declaration, and his Christine.

His diva. The reason why he had not resented the hardest season and wrote music again. The reason he’d slept well for a month. 

His hands knew the music. His heart knew the words. Both trembled.

...

The last showing of Rocky Horror for the year and the crew had pulled off the fastest prep Erik ever saw, including the time a set piece broke in half and left them scrambling. No amount of mental bleach could clear the image of his costumed interns shredding their pantyhose on duct tape and snagging their wigs on the jagged edges of the truncated piece.

They’d waited patiently for the last of the ballet attendees to leave before swooping in and enthusiastically helping to put away the painted plywood tree and cardboard box presents, bedroom set, and fireplace. While members of his company ran off to change, Erik decided to shave a few minutes off their prep and handle the AV himself.

The stage mics had caught pieces of their chatter.

They loved the ballet. A few relayed details of the amateur production and they all agreed to get tickets for the next show. One was going to audition for a spot on the company once one opened, and wasn’t so and so heading to grad school soon? 

Had they heard? There might be some money coming in soon if the Historical Society got involved? Had they ever seen the gorgeous tile mosaic under that ugly linoleum? Peel up the far corner and peek, but be careful-- the linoleum was old and cracking.

Yes, he had an extra set of fishnets. No, don’t touch the piano. The boss hated that.

Did you know the boss had a new show? His girlfriend was a singer and was going to perform next week. 

He had a girlfriend? Cool. Of course they all had tickets. 

His stage manager yelled too close to a mic and Erik snapped off the feed. Set up went quickly after that, but the echoes of their chatter remained. 

The little toast chuckers loved the place. They even supported shows that weren’t theirs. Not one mention of him as anything but ‘the boss’. Erik checked the line outside and found it was around the block despite the blowing cold.

Maybe the little degenerates weren’t so bad.

 

...

...

 

That last week was spent tightening up the lyrics, contouring stressed syllables carefully to the downbeats and the pauses brought in line. If he was honest, the childish meter of it all was almost embarrassing to read, but there was a reason everyone liked Dr. Seuss, right? And his words, set to music, floated on the wings of Christine’s breath…

_Viva._

They’d practiced late into the night and twisted in each other’s arms after. It was everything. The rest of the set was an afterthought.

The announcement for Torch Hour was given to a full house, and the theater hummed in anticipation. The lights brought her into shimmering relief against the dark stage. 

She wore gold. 

From the pit he could barely see her. He stretched his hands over the keys and let the notes spill out in a rush. Words etched on his lips, spoken only in kisses, were hers now.

He would be able to use them once she set them free.

...

 _There’s a word I‘m thinking of_  
_Don’t know yet if it’s real_  
_I’ve not yet heard one said_  
_That feels the way I feel_

 _Like is not enough_  
_And sweet is fine for food_  
_But there’s no word that I’ve heard yet_  
_That captures my new mood_

 _Refrain_  
_Love may be the word_  
_But that cannot be_  
_Love was never meant_  
_For someone built like me_

 _It’s quiet and it’s soft_  
_And sometimes bold and bright_  
_It tempers heat of day_  
_And gently warms the night_

_Refrain_

_What is this I feel_  
_Not sure I’ve thought it through_  
_Yet the empty pillow by my own_  
_Still bears the shape of you_

_Refrain_

_Love may not be the word_  
_Yet I know this much is true_  
_Perhaps I was not built for love_  
_But I was made for you_

_Perhaps I was not built for love_  
_But I was made for you._

...

She wore gold. The rest was a blur.

...


	9. Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love stories come full circle. My favorite ones do, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and appreciation to all the fans and phans out there. Brava to you all.

By mid-January, Torch Hour was extended to a two hour set with Christine performing three or four songs, then various other soloists and their accompaniments. Frankly the whole thing was probably going to need to be extended again because every coffee shop and noodle house in town had a regular act, and they were all clamoring for stage time. A quick introduction for each act moved quickly into the music. 

Having guests was Christine’s idea, of course. It was also her idea to invite them to stay after the show and play as a group. The first time, Erik found himself improvising around a saxophonist while Christine traded lines with a tenor. During these jams they joked and laughed, and a tap dancer popped in once to provide some percussion. By the third session, Erik was giving up his seat at the piano regularly to guests and occasionally to members of the crowd.

The first time he did, Christine gave him a curious glance. He just smiled and kissed her cheek, content to watch the magic, to let it happen. Musicians offered each other tips, traded details, and yielded the floor to each other. You could smell creation in the air.

In February, subscribers had access to these jam sessions, and tickets were an additional ten for non-subscribers. Local public radio broadcast the whole show live. Erik’s ‘slow night’ was now serious business.

And that was when the phone calls started.

…

She’d barely touched him, but her fingertips had a way of getting his attention. That little hollow by his hipbone, just under his belt. 

“Christine,” he said softly. “I’m writing.”

It was true. A new song for her had taken shape just after the holiday run. The theater closed for the week around New Year’s, mostly to allow the company time to recover from the cast parties. More practically, it also let the cleaning services do a deep clean on the whole place. The carpets were a wreck and Erik had stopped apologizing for the state of the backstage somewhere in the third week of December. 

It just went without saying at that point.

She kissed his cheek. “How’s it coming?”

Years of wearing the mask had trained him to give a lopsided grin. He hoped it was charming. “Well, it’s breathing hard, so…”

Christine appreciated his humor, acidic and surreal as it was. She liked his music, too, but she also liked interrupting him while he worked. To be fair, he liked it, too, so he left a few notes in the margin, set his pen aside and followed her.

Erik supposed it was inspiration and incentive rolled in the same package. For now, he would paint the music into her skin until her body sang it back. 

Precious words. Words she set free. 

“Lay back,” he said, and splayed his hand over her chest. He’d done the same after her debut, his hand stretching over that sleek gold dress. If they’d made a mess in his office the first time, it was nothing compared to that night. They’d stripped each other to the skin and grasped for heat in the drafty office, repeating words they were finally able to sound out. 

The stage manager knocked once and was rewarded with a stream of incoherent heresy before retreating, babbling apologies.

He’d laid her out on his desk that night. Tonight, their bed—their bed—provided a more comfortable setting. She caged him from beneath, her arms wrapping around and pulling him closer. Hot smears on his thigh, the side of his hipbone, Jesus. It was tempting, so tempting to just spread her open. 

You might have thought that living together might have cooled him, that regularity would take the edge off. You might think that. You would be wrong. He was sleeping more, eating better, and writing music. 

And Christine, who gave him the words, seemed to always want him within reach. 

Her little noises, those breathy huffs by his ear, would be a challenge to transcribe into music, but Erik would give it a try. She arched her neck, denting her pillow, and pushed into his hand. For a second, his fingers left stripes in her flushed skin before she flooded with color again. He trailed his hand down, down. 

It was a pleasure to make a singer forget how to breathe.

Kisses on her throat returned her air and she clamped her hands on him; one on his shoulder, the other over his occupied hand. He pressed with his tongue to feel the pulse of her, the song that ran through her. He thrust his hand to hear another measure, then trailed his kisses to follow.

Christine flooded his senses. The feel of her slick on his lips, her taste, first from his fingers for her to see and then taken directly, suckled, spreading over him from the scaffolds of his face to his neck. She rubbed against his mouth when she arched, scraping her nails through his hair. The feeling sizzled across his skin. Erik licked into her and sucked; she grew thick, plump against his lips.

Her hands slammed to the headboard and gripped it, knees bent, spread wide open. Curves like hearts, soft and blooming in his mouth. He traced her leg from ankle, knee, and then her hip. He loved her shape, the way she could grip him tight or open like a flower. A butterfly. But butterflies did not sing like Christine. _More_.

Erik pressed fingers under his chin and worked, thrusting himself into the mattress because he was still hers, imagined pushing into her while his mouth was there, too. He would take the song from her today. He’d heard her love, now he wanted her passion, her release, and he wanted it in his mouth and in his ears.

“Sing, Christine,” he murmured to her trembling, clenching sex. 

The first measures were clear in his mind by the time he licked his fingers clean, climbing back to her. He knew the ending when he regained his breath later, shaking and spent, humming the melody into their kisses. The lyrics were half written, too. He could say the words now. She’d set them free.

“I love you,” he gasped, burying his face in her hair. “I love you, I love you.”

She clutched him close even as he slipped free. “I love you, too.”

“I love you.”

Anyone else might have teased for saying it so often. Made some joke like _yeah, I know_ or _obviously look what we just did_ but Christine never did. And he never tired of hearing it. It was his favorite song.

…

Erik tugged his cuffs and tried to get comfortable. The high rise office building, nearly an hour away from his neighborhood, was a post-modern shock after spending years in his dusty, cozy theater and box of an apartment. A red power-suited intern had cheerfully brewed him an enormous coffee with beans that had a better pedigree than Mr. Pretty. He was registered, though what that meant besides being _certifiably_ ugly escaped Erik. 

He had been informed that the meeting was with a potential sponsor, one of a dozen that had come out of the woodwork once the radio show started gaining listeners. Most dealt directly with the public radio station, and a few wanted to meet with him personally. One wanted to discuss providing instruments for the after-show jam, and another asked about concessions. Both had met with him over coffee near the theater.

Not this one.

The intern showed him to a very impressive meeting room with a very impressive view. He imagined he was supposed to be impressed by the chairs as well, but a chair that looked better than it sat was not as useful as a twenty year old intern might think. She was only doing her job, so he nodded so she would leave and take her hundred watt smile with her.

The coffee was good, at least, and the view was nice. From the corner of his eye, he saw the red suit. Funny thing about being a guy in a mask, you tended to be very good at watching without anyone knowing. The intern’s grin was gone and she was prepping three people in navy and gray. 

She pointed at her face. Huh.

The glass doors opened and Erik turned elaborately and stood.

“Thank you so much for making the trip! I’m Curtis and this is my team, George and Jin.”

“Thanks for the invite,” Erik said, and exchanged names and small talk over handshakes. 

Curtis took a seat. “So Erik, I’ll cut to the chase. We’ve asked you here because we’re interested in offering you sponsorship. Your little theater has generated a lot of buzz and our company would love to help you grow and become a destination venue for the kinds of shows you’ve only imagined.”

Why were these places always freezing? Erik held his cup in both hands. “Sounds good so far, Curtis.”

“Wonderful. One of your big limitations is your stage. Our first project would be to help you reinforce the stage floors and upgrade to full movable platforms. The lighting and sound would follow, and eventually a full rework of services.”

Erik took a sip, forcing Curtis to continue. George and Jin remained still, encouraging smiles fixed in place. Huh.

“Then we’d move on to your technicals. Your stage should be completely outfitted to be a fully enabled studio. Torch Hour is ideally set to launch talent, and you could cut their first recordings. It’s an income stream we feel you shouldn’t ignore, and you could become the home stage for a lot of up and coming acts.”

“I like that,” Erik allowed. “I’ve wanted to do that for a few years, but… you know how it is.”

“We sure do, Erik,” Curtis said with a grin. “Now, and this is a very important point, my team would work very closely with your team to bring your schedule and ours into agreement.”

He sat up. “Sorry, my schedule?”

“Of course!” Curtis folded his hands in front of him. “Our organizations both strive to bring top performers and shows to the stage.”

Across the table, their smiles were indulgent. It didn’t feel right.

Erik set down his cup. “I’ve got a pretty full calendar. It’s going to be awhile until I can schedule something new. Especially with the restoration work starting soon.”

Jin reanimated. “We are confident we can provide contractors that can complete any necessary work fully within any reasonable timetable.”

“And,” Curtis jumped in, “we can assist you to reconfigure your schedule bring it into line with our promotions, tours, and events. You will never have to worry about downtime or running your book again.”

George gave a lazy wave of his hand. “And we can get this ball rolling for you in time for the summer.”

Summer. Erik leaned back. That was when he’d planned to start a jam night for high school kids. He’d already started talking with the school music directors on how to set it up. Erik imagined being a summer program that could help keep talented kids playing and give them something worthwhile to do. Christine suggested they could even expand the program to include set and costume design, too.

“I have a summer program for high school students planned.” It wasn’t a lie, it just wasn’t totally true yet. These things sometimes came together rather organically. When your goal was for people to learn, they usually did despite your last second bumbling. 

Curtis sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Oh, yeah. Like I said our creative teams will work with you. We like to find common ground for our creative visions. Creative agreement, if you will.”

Erik tapped his fingers on the table. “Creative agreement,” he repeated, only not as nicely as Curtis had said it. 

The glass doors swung wide and Christine flew in, her scarf mounded around her neck, static frizzing her hair into fluff. “Hey, sorry, got held up.” Quick introductions followed and Christine settled into the chair at Erik’s side.

“So, what did I miss?”

Curtis spoke first, to Erik’s annoyance. “We were just discussing enhancing the stage and studio to bring first class shows to your theater.”

Christine brightened. “That sounds pretty exciting. Does your team work often with the Historical Society?”

Curtis’s smile froze. Jin pursed her lips.

“Miss Daae, may I call you Christine? We have a rapid turnaround plan for our layouts and we are happy to conform to certain needs, but I cannot guarantee restoration grade work.” He gave a little laugh. “A restored theater can’t host the kinds of events our team can bring to you.”

Christine raised an eyebrow. Oh, this was going to be _fun_. 

Erik sat up and forced what he hoped was an earnest expression on his face. “Curtis was also saying that our schedule needs to be brought into, how did you phrase it?” Erik glanced over at Curtis innocently, “Oh yes, we would be brought into _creative agreement_ with his company.”

Silence. The meeting room crackled with the kind of energy the stage had as the lights rose, but no one was looking forward to the performance.

Christine smiled. It looked like a knife. “Oh, you’re one of those. I know how this goes. You found a quaint little venue that generates income and has one or two adorable features. You muscle in, offer a pile of cash, and negate existing contracts.”

She stood up and went to the window. “Your parent company stays at arm’s length, and you leave just enough of the schedule and design to look like a real stage, but you fire everyone and dump an empty suit in the head office whose real job is to clean the ice machine.” She turned back, her smile tight. “How am I doing so far?”

“Christine, our top priority is to preserve the--”

“Miss Daae. I never gave you permission. Or maybe you might recognize my previous name.” Her back was stiff as a rod. “I used to be Mrs. DeChagny, and I _left_ New York.”

Curtis’s mouth fell open. Jin and George suddenly found their nailbeds fascinating.

Erik, giddy with pride, tipped back the last of his coffee and tossed it into the trash can from his chair. The uncomfortable chair. “Thanks for the trip, Curtis, I had no idea how much downtown had changed.” He stood and took Christine’s hand. “We done?”

She tightened her scarf. “Done.”

As they left, Erik trailing behind Christine, he couldn’t resist popping his head back into the meeting room. “Psst, hey!” he said. 

Pinched faces looked up. Curtis lifted his head from his hands. “Yeah?” 

“I _love_ her.”

…

With his hair still damp from an evening shower, Erik crossed his living room, dodging dog bed, desk chair, and piano, and reached for the balcony door handle. The dust had been particularly clingy today as the restoration team delicately chipped out crushed tiles and carefully sealed the cracked ones. Thank god for HEPA filters. 

Progress was slow but tangible. There were so many small decisions to be made every day he’d lost track of them all, but it was worth it. The old girl was coming to life before his eyes.

As such, he’d been missing the sunsets lately, even with the sun setting later. When the prep team for Rocky Horror came in, Erik decided he’d done enough, so he hurried out and managed to beat Christine home. 

He opened the balcony doors. He’d managed to beat the sunset as well. Still chilly, but there was a promise of warmth there, too. Slashing rooflines cut stark borders into the stripes of candy-hued clouds. Lower, the untidy sprawl of balconies around the square cast slanting shadows, and the trees below bristled with tiny, bright leaves. The strings of lights turned on and sparkled in a loose, lazy chain from the branches.

Peace. He was at peace for the first time in a long while, perhaps ever. He was busy, and his days had never been crammed so full, true, but it was just that. Full. Life was so rich and had never been this way before. He was so _full_. 

Erik took a deep breath and caught a hint of cigarette in the soft night and smiled. Perhaps the night had known he was coming and set the scene for him.

He poured a glass of wine for them both. There was no room by the piano for the little table, so he left the wine on her desk and took a seat at the piano. A nocturne, perhaps? There was too much color in the sky yet. Perhaps he’d just let his mind wander, but first…

He unlocked the door, then drifted into a world of incidentals.

When Erik felt her at his side, he was lost in music. He hadn’t even noticed her come in, but he just smiled and leaned into her touch. An anchor.

“I love you.”

“You left the door unlocked,” Christine said as she sat with him on the bench.

Erik laughed softly. “I always leave it unlocked for you.” 

She kissed his cheek. “So what is it tonight? Are you working on something or just relaxing?”

“That depends,” he said. “Are you warmed up? I was thinking a duet.”

...

The end.


End file.
